


One Impossible Thing

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: First Time, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Nate POV, Post-Canon, Post-War, Presumed Dead, have faith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-10 02:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15282090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: They declared Brad officially KIA on the third Tuesday of October.Coalition forces looked for him after the ambush, hopeful that if anyone could survive, it was a recon Marine. That hope flickered, day by day, until three months finally snuffed it out. Eventually they called it: Brad Colbert's final mission was a total loss.Two weeks later, a FedEx envelope showed up at Nate's office. As the sealed note inside slid into Nate's hand, his gut dropped out.He'd recognize the hastily-scrawled "Nate Fick" anywhere; Brad wrote this.





	One Impossible Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Written in honor of the _GK_ 10th Anniversary. My thanks to [](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://ricochet.dreamwidth.org/)**ricochet** for her quick beta.

They declared Brad officially KIA on the third Tuesday of October. 

Coalition forces looked for him after the ambush, hopeful that if anyone could survive, it was a recon Marine. That hope flickered, day by day, until three months finally snuffed it out. Eventually they called it: Brad Colbert's final mission was a total loss. 

Two weeks later, a FedEx envelope showed up at Nate's office. As the sealed note inside slid into Nate's hand, his gut dropped out. 

He'd recognize the hastily-scrawled "Nate Fick" anywhere; Brad wrote this. 

***

LT, 

There's something undignified about writing goodbye missives before a mission. Still, I'm hardly one to violate tradition. And it seems even I have unfinished business to which I must attend. 

I've instructed that this be sent to you upon my death. If you're reading this it no longer matters, so I thought I should acknowledge what we both know:

You didn't imagine it. It wasn't one-sided. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you that. 

Or _mea maxima culpa_ in pussy-Classics-major-speak. 

You might check in on Ray. You never know how melodramatic inbred hicks will respond to bad news. I'd hate for him to tarnish the reputation of Bravo Two at this late date. 

Brad

***

The ringing in his ears started getting insistent and Nate sucked in a gasp. That was why his chest hurt. He'd stopped breathing. 

Nate focused on that, breath in, breath out, ignoring the _pound pound pound_ in his head, the other reasons his chest might hurt. 

He'd had _no idea_. His thoughts tumbled over each other, rearranging their entire history, contextualizing it in the way he'd always wanted, _the way it'd actually been_.

But no. He couldn't go down that road. He pushed those thoughts aside, ignoring the contents of the letter in his perfectly steady hand because if he didn't nothing might ever be perfectly steady again. 

Fingers numb, Nate found Ray's number in his contacts and hit send. 

Ray picked up on the first ring. "He sent me a fucking 'in case I die' letter," he snapped by way of greeting. 

"I know."

"I mean—what the fuck? You write this shit to your family. I'm not—" Ray cut himself off, his voice broken, unwilling to say what he knew wasn't true. 

"I have to go," Nate said, to Ray, to his office, to himself, maybe. He ended the call and walked straight out. CNAS could handle itself for a while.

***

The next few days were a blur. He vaguely recalled telling his assistant that he needed a personal week. He definitely remembered Ray calling, over and over, too many times to count. Until he didn't, until he stopped, leaving Nate to stare at his bedroom wall in peace. 

Numbness was another word for peace, right?

***

At first Nate thought the pounding was in his head again—had he eaten today?—but it went on long enough that he realized: no, that was real. 

Then his door splintered open, bending to the will of a solid kick. _Nice form_ , Nate thought, just as Ray Person appeared, looking frantic. He spotted Nate and sagged in relief. 

Then he got pissed. 

"Not to be overly familiar, sir, but what in the ever loving fuck? I know you have a phone. Did it betray you? Did you really have to make an RTO come all the way out to the clusterfuck of DC to unfuck your communications? Just like an officer, expecting the enlisted man to do all your work."

Nate looked at him blankly. "You kicked in my door."

" _I thought you might be dead_. Brad said—I can't lose— _fuck_." Ray slumped to the floor, head in his hands, overcome. 

Nate could relate. 

***

Ray got him moving again, focused again. One of his men needed help; Nate couldn't fall apart in the face of that. He'd had practice at keeping his shit together. 

And if every breath was laden with wanting Brad, with never having Brad, well, that was the price he paid for being there for his men. He'd paid far more in the past. It was fine.

Nate ignored the part of his brain that called him a dirty fucking liar. What was the point of examining it, in the end? It wouldn't change anything. Brad was gone. Acknowledging that reality was the only reasonable course of action. Healthy, even. 

Completely healthy. 

***

Nate read Ray's letter once. Ray had left it out, some part of him wanting Nate to see it, probably. 

***

Person,

If you're reading this, I'm dead. Try not to injure any of your hick relatives/sexual partners/farm animals in your expressions of grief. 

Look in on the LT, would you? I'm quite certain you know why. That you managed discretion on this one thing has never ceased to amaze me. I guess you weren't completely useless. 

Now man the fuck up and go play house with Walt. This pussy cowardice bullshit gave me a headache while alive, so if I can use my death to guilt you into happiness, more's the better.

Brad

***

Nate smiled until his face hurt, then realized he wasn't smiling at all. Not with the wetness on his cheeks, the terrible ache making his head hurt, his _everything_ hurt. 

He never let Ray read Brad's letter to him. 

***

Ray left a week later. 

"Just, promise to call if your brain starts going all officer, would you? And not garden-variety-officer, I mean, 'eating my gun sounds fun' officer. Don't make me come back here," Ray said, a threat. A plea. 

Nate swallowed. "You have my word, Corporal."

Ray looked at him—so steady, so serious, so unlike the Ray who lived large in his memory—and nodded. Nate was honor-bound now. They both knew it. 

He walked out without a word. 

***

Nate went back to work. He could tell people were curious about his abrupt absence, but no one asked. He was grateful. 

The gratitude didn't last. Because now that he knew what Brad had felt...the whole world looked different. Not in a good way. 

He went to the office like he did every day, he went to meetings and lunches, argued policy and funding, and none of it could pierce the cloud of _loss_ surrounding him. His heart wasn't in it. 

His heart was _shattered_. It was bad enough to lose Brad, those horrible three months of not knowing, of hoping against hope, of unshakeable faith that Brad would be the one to survive, of course he would. Brad saw everything; surely he'd made some plan, taken some opportunity...only for all those desperate pleas to be met with the specter of a folded flag. 

This felt like _another_ loss, which didn't make any sense. They'd never had a relationship outside of battlefield camaraderie. He hadn't even heard from Brad since he'd separated from the Corps. 

Those arguments failed to mollify the thing inside him that said this made it all worse. To lose Brad was terrible. To lose what he could have had with Brad left him gutted. 

And the kicker was, he couldn't say that to anyone. His platoon leader from years ago died, and that was sad, but what right did he have to be inconsolable? Why should he fall apart? 

Even his own mind told him he should be stronger than this. Carry on, move forward, Brad would want him to. 

Fuck that. Brad would want to be alive. _Nate_ wanted him to be alive. 

That was the crux of it. That one impossible thing. 

***

For a while, Nate had dreaded Mike's calls, each one bringing a new disappointment when there was no news of Brad. Until the worst news came, of course. After, Nate tried to take solace in Mike's steady presence, but it was hard to shake the association.

When Nate answered his call this time, Mike sounded excited. It stung a little; the world was moving on and here Nate was, drowning in misery. 

"They found Brad," Mike said, almost triumphant. 

The familiar pain lanced through Nate, like it always did at any mention of Brad. Every time he'd convinced himself he was getting better he got bowled over by it anew. Still, he tried to be glad, even if just for the closure. "That's good news, Mike. At least Mrs. Colbert will have some closure."

"Nate, you're not hearing me. They didn't recover his body; _they found Brad_. Motherfucker's alive."

The words rattled around in Nate's brain, but still made no sense. "What?"

"He was being hidden by locals in some cluster of huts too small to call a town, much less put on a map. The Taliban had no idea."

"But—that doesn't make any sense. It's been almost _four months_."

"Yeah, well, thank Pashtun hospitality. They kept him alive on goat milk and finally sent some young nephew through the mountains to go find a patrol and tell them their Army man was sick. Command sent in the goddamn SEALs; Brad'll never get over the shame."

"Is he—is he okay?"

"Banged up, sounds like. Some infections kept him pretty out of it. He's at Ramstein on every antibiotic in the world and I hear they gotta get him into surgery to fix some shit. But they say he'll make it."

Nate had no idea what he said. He might not even have spoken, just made some noise, but Mike didn't seem to notice. "I gotta go. Keep you updated." And then he was gone. 

Nate simply stared at his phone as Mike's words echoed through his skull: _He'll make it._

He dropped to his knees. 

***

Brad just blinked when Nate walked into his room at Balboa Hospital, like he didn't understand. Ray looked up from his bedside and muttered, "Shit." Then he turned to Brad's sister and said, bright, "Let's go get our dear Brad some real-people food."

Becca let herself be hustled out without much of a fuss, shooting Nate a look, but not commenting. Then it was just Brad staring at Nate and Nate staring right back.

He was thin, his cheeks hollow. There were too many bandages to count, but despite all that, Brad's eyes were sharp. He was _here_. 

Nate approached, but Brad's expression didn't clear. "Sir," he said, bewildered. 

"They declared you dead," Nate said, holding Brad's gaze. It took a moment, but he saw when his meaning finally landed.

"Fuck," Brad said faintly. His surprise lasted barely an instant before his expression shuttered and turned cold. The Iceman was back. "You shouldn't be here," he bit out. 

Nate covered Brad's hand with his own. "It took _death_ , you asshole."

Brad swallowed, staring at Nate's hand like it couldn't possibly be real.

Finally, he turned his hand, fitting it into Nate's. 

It was something. 

***

Brad stayed at Ramstein until they were able to control his immediately life-threatening conditions, then he'd been transported back to Pendleton. From there he got transferred to Balboa Hospital where he was to stay until his infections were under control and he wasn't about to die of sepsis. His wounds were healing, even the surgical scars, and he was no one's ideal patient, so the doctors finally released him after extracting a promise of vigilance about his care. 

When Brad walked into his house, Nate was already there, chicken piccata simmering on the stove. 

"What the fuck," Brad said, not a question. 

"I like your house. Lots of natural light," Nate said, taking a sip of his beer.

Brad didn't ask how he'd gotten in. Brad was too smart for that. 

"Seems a bit more full than I left it," Brad said, careful. 

"I figured you wouldn't mind the groceries. Even your cheese was moldy."

Brad stepped further into the house, moving slowly, on account of his injuries. "I thought you went back to DC. You know, to your job."

"Yeah, I needed to wrap up some stuff before my leave." Brad froze up again, blinking at Nate in shock, so Nate continued, "How long are you laid up?"

"My CO threatened to revoke my base pass if I tried to show up in the next month. Hang on, you took a _leave_ from your job? What the hell would you do that for?"

"So I could be here."

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"And I didn't tell you I was. Your point?" If nothing else, Nate knew how to handle Brad. He wasn't asking _permission_ , thank you very much. 

"You just decided to move in?" Brad sounded incredulous, but Nate knew him better. If he really wanted Nate gone, this wasn't the way to go about it. 

Nate stepped close, handing him the beer he'd had waiting thanks to Ray's heads up. "I want this. Don't you?"

That shut Brad up pretty quick.

***

It was weird, going from never seeing each other to being in each other's pockets all the time. Brad didn't want to admit it, but he was hurting, slower than even the slowest Nate had seen him. He needed help changing his bandages, which he hated, and his back was still sore from the surgery, so he couldn't crouch to fiddle with his bike or go surfing in the morning. 

Brad being unable to do things he loved went over real well. 

He could play with his laptops, so he did that, more than was probably healthy. But he still got snippy with Nate, usually when he needed some kind of help—changing bandages, lifting something heavy—Brad's temper getting short in a way Nate wasn't used to. His tone reminded Nate of a long-ago, "I think we can take it from here, sir," Brad's anger flaring along Nate's nerve endings. But unlike that clusterfuck, Nate was not at fault here. He knew it probably stemmed from Brad's lack of control over his own body, but whenever Brad bit out, "I got it, Nate," it still burned. 

Nate tried to stay above it all. He kept up with Brad's medications, cooked and went out for supplies, and it was all so goddamn domestic it kind of felt like a farce. 

They didn't talk about it. 

They didn't talk about much of anything. As the days went on, Nate told him about CNAS when he asked. Brad volunteered some stories about the Royal Marines, talked quietly about the men he'd lost on that disastrous mission, but for the most part, they existed together, yet still apart. 

And there was the sex thing. Specifically, how much it was not happening. 

Nate slept in Brad's guest room. He sometimes patted him on the shoulder, but for physical contact, that was about it. It had become this weird _thing_ between them, both aware of it, neither broaching it. Nate figured he would take Brad's lead.

The problem was, Brad wasn't leading anywhere. Sometimes Nate caught him staring, a little furrow in his brow like he was trying to puzzle something out, but as soon as Nate noticed, Brad looked away. 

Nate tried to will him to do something, say something, it was all out there, after all, the letter making everything painfully clear. 

But still, Brad did nothing. And so Nate waited.

***

One Thursday afternoon, Brad sighed the sigh of the truly put-upon and looked up from his laptop, stirring Nate from his draft policy brief. "Poke's having a retarded barbecue this weekend." 

Nate translated that in his head. "The men want to officially welcome you back?" 

Brad pulled a face. "Whatever, if I have to be there, so do you."

Nate hmmed. "An officer in the house, what is the world coming to."

"Civilian," Brad taunted with a quick flash of teeth before turning back to his screen.

The sudden _want_ nearly blinded Nate, heart fluttering, breath coming short. It was so...Brad. So viscerally, beautifully Brad and it made him _ache_ with how much he wanted to go over and touch. Feel for himself that Brad was real and here and whole. 

Nate stayed where he was. As much as he wanted, he just...didn't know how to go about _getting_. Not when Brad refused to make the first move. 

***

Being San Diego, the weather was great for an outdoor barbeque, even in November. Dozens of men lounged around Poke's backyard, beers sweating in hand, including the lion's share of Bravo Two. The wives were mostly clustered inside, but a few were mixed in with the large group surrounding Brad and Poke, currently putting on a show. 

"They're already talking about making a movie out of this shit. Like, what? Reporter's book wasn't enough for you?" Poke turned to his audience, on a roll now. "Reporter's got a miniseries in the works and we all know who the hero of that will be, but God forbid the Iceman have to share the spotlight with any of us; this motherfucker has to go and do something so crazy that Steven Spielberg wants to handle it himself."

"You're right, Poke. I said to myself, 'I could escape this Afghani village, but think of the movie rights.'" Laughter and jeers rang out, making Nate smile. He'd missed this, the guys giving each other shit, even if he'd never really been a part of it. 

He still wasn't, hanging back under the avocado tree, keeping to himself. He'd gotten some good-natured ribbing from the guys, and it was a joy to see them, but no one seemed surprised he was here. Nate suspected Ray. 

Gabi Espera slowly moved over to Nate, handing him a fresh beer, which he accepted with a grateful look. She smiled, then nodded at Brad, voice low: "He seems remarkably okay." 

Nate looked at Brad, all blond and handsome in the bright sunlight, popping cashews in his mouth and smirking as Poke continued his ranting, expansive beer-waving and all. It hurt to look at him. "You know, Brad," Nate answered. "He's an iceberg. Little peak above the water and whole behemoth lurking underneath, ready to tear into battleships like so much tinfoil."

Gabi blinked. "Something you want to get off your chest, Nate?"

Nate replayed his words in his head, clocking his tone, and decided he maybe shouldn't have another beer after all. "Can't imagine what you mean."

"Uh-huh. You still staying at Brad's?" she asked, perfectly innocent and wholly leading. 

"I'm helping with his recuperation."

"He sure looks like he needs the help." Gabi glanced over to where Brad held Walt in a headlock, Ray laughing uproariously that he couldn't get out of it. Which...fair. Brad had gotten worlds better in the last few days, turning some invisible corner that both eased Brad's own strain at being a near-invalid, but somehow ratcheted up the tension between the two of them. Nate didn't know what up with that, so as ever, he was waiting Brad out. 

"I don't know what I'm doing," Nate admitted, the afternoon breeze wafting the scent of jasmine over to him. Even that was so perfect it hurt. Everything was so close to wonderful, just three degrees off. Such a slight difference made it so much worse. 

Gabi smiled softly and took his arm. "You do help him, you know."

"With his recuperation?"

"With his self. Brad's different with you. Even just the way he looks at you. He lets himself be...softer. After so many years of being an icy sonofabitch, we should all be glad for it."

Nate swallowed. He had no response to that. Gabi didn't press, so he let the subject drop, grateful. Watching Brad lord over his men like a king deigning to converse with peasants was far more appealing, anyway. 

***

When they got home from the barbecue many hours later, Brad grabbed another beer, asking, far too casually: "What were you and Gabi talking about?" 

"You."

Brad frowned, some kind of hesitance leaking into his expression. But he didn't press. Instead he took his beer out to the garage, which Nate knew meant he wanted to be alone. 

Not that he could figure out the larger meaning of any of this.

***

After another day of Brad looking at him oddly, but not saying much at all, Nate was hunting through the spice cabinet, trying to find the damn Lawry's seasoning salt—he swore he'd seen it here—when he felt Brad's presence behind him. Nate turned—

"I want to fuck."

Nate blinked in shock. That was the _last_ thing he expected Brad to say. 

Brad continued, as if in explanation: "Gabi said I should say what I want and I want to fuck."

Nate swallowed, the reality of this settling in. _Fucking finally._ "Can I take the steaks off the grill first?"

Brad licked his lips. "Steak sounds good."

Nate stared at his mouth. "Later," he decided, hurrying out to shut off the smoking grill, forgetting about the Lawry's. They could eat later. 

***

Nate couldn't help the little thrill when Brad pushed him back on his bed and crawled over him, pulling off his shirt. This was what he'd wanted, Brad _here_ , alive and getting stronger every day. 

Strong enough to pin Nate in place and ravage his mouth, tongue-fucking him like it was all he'd been thinking about. 

Nate wrapped his arms around Brad and arched up, rubbing shamelessly against Brad's cock, already hard. Brad made a noise into Nate's mouth and rutted against him, dry humping like kids. Nate sank into the pleasure of it, the way his nerves lit up every time Brad shifted against him, desperate and wanting. 

Nate gasped as Brad bit at his jaw, sucking kisses into his skin. "Wanted this," Nate panted. "All I could think about after I got that letter."

Nate hooked an ankle around Brad's knee and rolled them, leaning down for Brad's mouth again. Brad kissed him back, fingers shoving at Nate's shirt, shaking. 

He leaned up to rip it off, catching sight of Brad's eyes, wide and startled in the low light. Brad's hands explored his chest, tracing the line of his abdominals, but there was a halting quality to it. 

Nate moved back in to take his mouth, but something else stole his attention: Brad's erection had flagged. Nate bit Brad's bottom lip, soothing it with his tongue, but instead of picking up that tease, Brad turned his head. Withdrawing. 

Just like that, Nate's own hard-on wilted. He rolled off Brad, giving him space. He figured Brad would say something, but instead he just stared off into the distance, frowning. His chest heaved a little too much for what they'd been doing. 

"Brad?" 

Nothing. Maybe he'd taken Nate's withdrawal as a rejection? Nate shifted closer again, not on top of him, but skin-to-skin. Brad still didn't react.

Time for another tactic, then. 

"Brad, _look at me_." Said in Nate's officer voice, the one Brad was conditioned to obey. 

Brad's eyes snapped to his, teeth gritted. 

"So, too much then," Nate said, gesturing between them. 

Brad stayed silent. 

"Should I go?" Nate nodded out to the spare bedroom. 

"No," Brad said quickly. Then he paused and considered. "No," he repeated, softer. 

"Okay." Nate shoved at the covers and settled on his side, close enough to share heat, but not touching. And not moving away. He breathed in slowly. Beside him, Brad followed suit, syncing up their breathing in a way that shouldn't feel so viscerally good. It still did. 

Nate sank into the darkness. At least they were finally moving forward. He took comfort in that. 

***

Sharp pain jerked him awake, the residual burn of taking a blow with force behind it. Brad tossed and turned, his sleep troubled, and Nate quickly caught the next elbow sent his way. 

"Brad, wake up," he gritted out. 

Caught in his dream, Brad didn't, simply bucked like it was life or death. 

This shit was not on. 

Nate rolled them and twisted Brad's arm behind his back. He pinned him to his own bed, face-down, and shook hard, once. 

Brad suddenly stilled. 

"You're safe, Brad. You're in bed. You were dreaming," Nate said, low, into his ear. 

Brad tensed underneath him, but remained still. Nate released him, pulling away to turn on the bedside lamp. His shoulder twinged again and he rubbed an exploratory hand over it—

Brad's eyes fixed there. He ghosted tentative fingers over reddened skin, his face completely blank. He pulled his hand back abruptly. 

"You were dreaming," Nate said, soft. 

"I could put you in a sleeper hold and kill you before you even woke up," Brad said flatly. 

"Then it's a good thing I'm an expert at getting out of sleeper holds." Brad said nothing, merely clenched his jaw and looked away. "Brad—"

"I think you should go now."

Nate looked at him for a moment; Brad refused to meet his eyes. "I will because you asked, but this isn't done."

Nate didn't look back as he walked out. 

***

The next morning, Nate stirred the scrambled eggs thoughtfully. He liked them runnier than Brad, but he could be accommodating. 

"Why are you here?" Brad asked him from behind, tone belligerent, looking for a fight. 

Nate spared a brief glance back at Brad—wearing pajama pants and nothing else, newly-healing scars looking pink and angry in the morning light—but kept focused on the eggs. "Didn't feel like running this morning. Privilege of civilian life."

Brad made an irritated noise. When Nate looked at him again, he was much closer, still silent in his movements. "You're not getting anything out of this."

Nate snorted. Oh, so it was this fight. 

"You're not," Brad insisted. "Dealing with my pissiness during the day. Subduing assaults during the night. You're not even getting off. So what's the point?"

"I'm perfectly capable of getting myself off, thank you. Had a fair bit of practice."

"Nate."

Nate moved the pan to another burner and clicked off the flame. He turned to face Brad. "You." 

Brad shook his head— _that's not an answer_ —so Nate continued: "You're why I'm here. If you want to be transactional about it, you're what I'm getting out of it. That's it, Brad. It's just you."

Brad frowned, some deeper worry nagging at him, Nate could see. "I shouldn't have written that letter. It was selfish. I should've left it alone."

Nate gritted his jaw, but didn't respond, studying Brad instead. If he could avoid his own emotional response, this would make sense. 

Brad was, what? Thinking he wasn't worth all the trouble? Undoubtedly. But how did that connect to the letter?

Nate kept his voice even: "It would've been better to let me live out my life believing I had developed inappropriate, unrequited feelings for my subordinate? Because let me tell you, I spent a few years thinking that and it was no picnic."

Brad winced because no, there was no world in which that was better. So what was he driving at here?

"I dropped all this on you."

"'All this?'"

"Me," Brad clarified, gesturing to himself, his house, the whole situation. "No hint of warning, bolt out of the blue. And then I'm hurt and recuperating and what are you supposed to do?"

"You think I'm here out of _obligation_?" Nate asked, incredulous. But no, that actually did track, once he said it aloud. Brad would think that. In his mind, he wasn't the one people chose, so Nate must be here for some other reason. 

"That letter forced your hand. You'd never...turn your back on one of your men. And you knew how I felt."

"Because my feelings don't matter at all."

"It was years ago. You could be rocking a white picket fence for all I know."

"I'm not. You know I'm not," Nate said, forcing his voice to remain even. 

"I don't know anything!" Brad shouted. 

Nate's silence was loud after that, but he used it to get Brad's attention. After a deliberate moment, "Here's what I know: this cowardice is beneath you."

Brad's expression went steely. "Fuck you."

"Hey, you came out here looking for a fight. Don't get pissed at me because it's not the fight you want."

"I came out here worried I was forcing you into something you don't want."

"Right, because I'm honor-bound to take it up the ass so I won't hurt your little feelings. I hate to destroy any illusions here, but I'm not that good a guy." Nate let than sink in. "But you knew that. So let's talk about what this is really about."

"Please. Do tell," Brad shot back, acidic.

Nate didn't rise to it. "It's getting real and you're terrified. You're convinced that I'll hurt you. Leave you like Jess, maybe. Easier to just call it now, right?"

"That's not what this is." 

Nate laughed and shook his head. "That letter was the best thing that ever happened. I'm sorry about the mission and the men and the four months and all the pain, but where it got us? I'm not sorry about that. Because you _never would have told me_."

Brad stayed silent, but Nate didn't need him to speak; he could see the hit land. And he didn't even need that. He knew he was right. 

"You would have just ignored it forever, let me go my own way, because you didn't want to risk it. The only way it would ever come out was when there was zero risk: when you were dead."

"I'm not the only one who didn't take the risk," Brad muttered. 

Nate acknowledged that with a nod. "I should have had more faith in myself. In you."

Nate moved to Brad then, settling hands on his hips, pulling him close. Brad didn't shy away. "But now that we both know what idiots we've been, we can fix it."

Brad stared at him, a spark of hope buried there, but he still didn't say anything. Couldn't, maybe. 

"You need space, I can give you that. You need me to sleep in the other room, in my apartment in DC, I can do that. But if you think I'm gonna walk away for good, that's a no-go, Sergeant."

Brad looked at him like he had no idea where Nate had come from. "I still don't see what you're getting out of this," he said, almost helpless.

"I know. We'll work on it."

Slowly, tentative, Brad wrapped his arms around Nate. He dropped his forehead to Nate's. And breathed.

***

Fin. Comments are adored.


End file.
